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Sometimes hope washes over me and flows through me.

Hope is not a friend. It is more like a dangerous stranger who promises something one can't quite believe.

Hope seems so wispy, so wimpy, so wishful.

But it has great power. In my deepest despair, I am aware that hope is there, lurking and hiding, yet making itself known, exerting its subtle pressure to keep going, to believe in myself, to believe in the future.

Hope is brave. It dares to come before me and proclaim its faith in me and who I am. After all I've been through, it has the gall, the enormous nerve to expect me to continue on.

I want to smash it down, destroy it completely. I long to be left alone to die.

But hope won't let go. It circles around my pain like a deadly poisonous smoke, smelling of fresh air, bringing with it the memory of gardens and flowers and beauty and peace.

It tries to tell me about joy, but I am too angry, too hurt to believe in joy, or even the possibility of joy.

Sometimes, when I am relaxed and quiet, it says love is here. I know that is a lie, but hope persists. Hope is strong. Hope is steadfast. Hope is clear eyed and sure.

In the end, if I keep crying, hope may defeat me.

msb